


thought of you as my mountaintop

by vivamusmealesbia



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1969, Angst, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, ambiguous - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:41:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivamusmealesbia/pseuds/vivamusmealesbia
Summary: Paul doesn't show up. John scales a wall.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 6
Kudos: 48





	thought of you as my mountaintop

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by that picture of John jumping the fence at Paul's house in 68/69. Sorry if this is sloppy, I've never really done this before! I'm American so excuse the painful attempts at British-isms. Title is from "Pale Blue Eyes" by the Velvet Underground.

Paul wasn’t here. Not only was he not here, but he wasn’t even coming. John would say it was unlike Paul, who was typically so fastidious with his precious studio time, if he hadn’t sworn off all duties of knowing him like an old friend. The less he knew about Paul these days the easier it was to sleep at night, and it was hard enough as is. Convincing himself of this was another matter altogether, which is why his vision was turning red at the edges. Because Paul wasn’t here. And they had all agreed to go into the studio tonight, overdubs, or something and god what an _arsehole_ , why wasn’t he here? How hard is it to show up to record for your own fucking band, the band Paul clearly loves to get all teary-eyed over every other fortnight? As if John wanted to be there, as if he didn’t have better things to be doing? Couldn’t Paul see that? Wasn’t it clear that John couldn’t be fucking bothered and Paul should be _lucky_ for any scraps of time and attention John deigned to throw his way? 

“I’ve just got off the phone with Paul, says it’s some anniversary between him and Linda. They’re staying in to do a nice dinner, and he’ll come ‘round to do the touching up tomorrow, alright?” 

Ah, and wasn’t that just the answer to his question. 

George had wandered back into the room to deliver this piece of information, casually, as if it wasn’t a nuclear bomb about to go off behind his ears. And it wasn’t really, it wasn’t anything so out of the ordinary. It was a change of plans, that’s all. Except that was _just it_ , wasn’t it. Paul didn’t care. Paul doesn’t care about the band, or the rest of them, not _really_. Paul doesn’t care about George, or Ringo, and he certainly doesn’t care about John. John doesn’t care either, he knows that, he carries around that mantra with him, a song of his own design that had everything and nothing to do with his old partner, that he _doesn’t care doesn’t care doesn’t give a shit doesn’t care doesn’t care about Paul doesn’t care what Paul’s doing doesn’t care doesn’t care_. And he really doesn’t, except it’s a little hard to assure himself with how hard his hands are shaking, and he knows George can see. He’s been here before, and John wonders what he’ll get this time, pity or disengagement. 

“Er, John? We’ll just come in tomorrow, yeah?” 

Disengagement. Fascinating. Pity in his eyes though, but he could never do condescension like Paul could. John would love to answer George’s question, clear his calendar and be cavalier about the whole thing, but all of a sudden he’s running, out of the room and onto the street outside Abbey Road. He knows he must look like a madman, because even the typical scruffs, used to Beatle madness of any kind, step aside in shock. He takes off like a shot towards Cavendish. The liquid fury in his veins is rocket fuel enough to carry him halfway there while sprinting, but he has to stop and gather himself before long. So much for city living, he supposes. So much for youth. As if some stupid angel on his shoulder, Paul appears in his mind and tells him to lay off the drugs, says with his hands on his hips, “Now John, what have you done with yourself? You’ve got a son at home, you’ve got _everything_ ,” and so on. Maybe if Paul had a fucking clue what it was like—well no matter. It’s clear he doesn’t. Perfect fucking Paul, every drug he took made him better, made him a genius, made him the bloody Prince of Swinging London. While he heaves a bit more on the sidewalk, businessmen stepping out of his way, his psyche retaliates with an equally celestial Yoko on his other shoulder. She’s calm, calm how he could never be, she’s got a handle on it while he boils over. When she opens her mouth and smiles there is no comfort in the gesture. 

“Do you even know what you’re going to say to him? How will he react when he sees the state you’re in, and over what? You’re not mad because of a missed recording session, you’re mad at him. Why, John? What has Paul _done_ to you?” 

John stands upright and begins to jog the remaining blocks and the twin apparitions disappear. When he rounds the corner, the girls that stand congregated by Paul’s door at all hours see him and begin to titter. One of them shouts, “John!” and the flame of anger reignites. He’s been waiting since 1963 for the screaming masses to realize they’re asking for the autograph of a raving lunatic. He pushes past the girls and begins pounding on the gates. Maybe they all know and don’t care, maybe he’s lived in and formed a world of raving lunatics. They’ve all been waiting for him to go mad, he bets. He went from stoking the throbbing Dionysian hordes to turning the world on, and the only way for him to top the acid was to fully lose it. Oh, they’d love it. They’re all just looking for the next best person to throw their popcorn at. When the banging proves unsuccessful he begins yelling Paul’s name, and when that fails and his eyes start stinging he decides he needs to take matters into his own hands. 

John begins to hoist himself over Paul’s gates; it’s ungraceful, and the word the back of his mind supplies is _passionate_. Romeo, Romeo. A camera flashes somewhere, and why anyone would want to remember this moment is beyond him. They must feel like the police arriving at a car-crash, photographing the smoking wreckage so justice can be dealt out later. He feels sick and in the middle of his scrabbling he’s 18 again, climbing up the drain-pipe. Half-drunk, feeling the press of Paul’s fingers on his bicep, helping him through the bathroom window. Paul’s still young and hasn’t figured out how to get his hair to form that perfect Elvis quiff yet, but he’ll get it soon. He’s still eager to please, eager for John to ruin his night’s sleep, ruin his grades and his prospects and his whole damn life. All John’s eager for now is a fight, a real good fight. He hasn’t had a good fight in ages, since Hamburg maybe. _No, since Paul’s birthday party, remember? How you ruined it with your anger, and your deviancy_ —that same voice at the back of his mind starts again. Paul’s not eager for anything anymore, no, darling Paulie wants to go back. Sometimes John even agrees with him, but you can’t, you just can’t. Forward isn’t always better but it is at least new. Maybe there was a future where they can find a way to go forward without all this, but John’s ruined it, because that’s what he’s good at it and that’s what he knows how to do. He’s perverted this childhood ritual of sneaking up the drainpipe, twisted it and made it ugly. His feet land in Paul’s garden and Juliet is nowhere to be found. 

He marches up to the door, but Paul opens it before he gets there. John gets just a glance at the comical shock on his face, those famous eyebrows upturned before shoving past him into the entrance hallway. 

“How fucking dare you do this! How fucking dare you! What are you playing at, you thought you’d just cancel on us, as if you’re not the damn perfectionist who insists on a million sessions and a million takes? I realize we’re all just underlings at your beck and call, _Paulie_ , but I didn’t realize you’d gotten so bold about it! You’re the one who cares about all of this, you’re the one who’s supposed to fucking care, and now you think you’ll sag off and wash your hands of us? What the fuck are you playing at, Paul?” 

“What—what am I playing at? Fine mate, I probably should’ve called ahead to say I wasn’t going to make it, but Jesus. John, what? What are you fucking on about?” 

John prepares his next onslaught of vitriol, but before he opens his mouth, Linda comes around the corner and stands behind Paul in the narrow hallway, puts her hand on his arm. There she is, the crux of it all, the center of his whole universe. John thinks he must’ve been being willfully foolish this whole time to ignore it. This tawdry American bitch, this cryptic observer to the firestorm of their lives, and— _and your replacement?_ His mind offers, knocking the wind out of him so severely he wants nothing more than to crawl back home and never see Paul again. He’s sweat this much though. 

“Oh my, how rude of me, how frightfully sorry I am, I seem to have interrupted the maestro and his lady love. And on this, of all evenings! My, how terribly sorry I am!” John snarls out, and for a moment sees himself the way they must, a wild animal that needs taming. John can’t disagree with them, but he can read in the unimpressed glare of his eyes what Paul’s thinking. _It’s not my job anymore, John. You chose your lion tamer, and it wasn’t me. I’ve got a wife, I’ve got a daughter. I can’t wrangle you anymore. And even if I could, Johnny? It wasn’t fun. It never was_. 

John lunges forward a bit without knowing why, but Paul shifts in front of Linda, as if to protect her from this beast, and then he wants to. He wants to strike Paul, strike them both, he wants to see the blood mingle on Paul’s lips the way it did in the old days when things got ugly. Things are ugly now, but this, this fighting without bruises. This is so much worse. 

Paul takes a different approach, and it should be better, but it’s not. He lowers his voice, makes himself gentler, and says, “What’s all this, John? What are you really so angry about?” 

John pauses. He looks at Paul, looks at his elegant features sculpted into this _mask_ , looks at their floundering partnership and their life which has taken a turn for the tragicomic, and thinks of how he can respond. 

_What am I angry about? Everything. Nothing. I’m angry about you sitting here for dinner with your wife, without me, without a thought in my direction. For all your crooning I really don’t think you miss me one bit. I’m angry because I can’t speak to you anymore, and I don’t even want to. I’m angry because I don’t know how to live with this wanting, and I’m angry because I don’t know how to live without it either. I don’t know what I fucking want but I know I’m not getting it. I’m angry. When have you ever not known me angry, McCartney? I’m angry. I’m fucking furious_. 

Paul was stupid to expect a straight answer out of him anyway, but he looks like he’s about to try again. John doesn’t want that, but he’s powerless to stop him from saying it apart from putting his hands over his ears like a child, which he hasn’t ruled out. 

“What have I done?” 

There it is again, but this time John feels the answer rising in the back of his throat like bile, and there’s years and years of it. What has he done, what has he done _to you_ , and John’s realizing, finally fucking realizing it’s really not about that, because Paul has done everything except what John wanted him to do, so it’s not that, it’s not that, it’s what Paul _hasn’t_ done. What he hasn’t done and never will do and what he’ll never want to do, because if he wanted to, he would. If he wanted to, he would. That’s it, John’s finally fucking realized, it’s what he didn’t do all those years, what he didn’t do in India, what he didn’t do when they tripped acid and stared into each other’s souls, what he didn’t do on every continent and every hotel room in the world, what he didn’t do in Key West, what he didn’t do in Hamburg and what he didn’t do in Paris. All at once there’s a world of things Paul hasn’t done, since Paris, but really since fucking _Woolton_ , so much that it seems hard to believe Paul ever did anything. There’s no way to go back and it wouldn’t matter if there was. Paul’s just that sort of person, if he wanted things to be a certain way, they would be. People like Paul get what they want, which is why Linda is standing in the hallway with him right now, still clutching his arm. People like John discover that the one thing worse than wanting something and not knowing what is knowing _exactly_ what. John would give anything to go back to the blissful not-knowing of thirty seconds ago, because he knows what he wants. He wants Paul to dismiss Linda with a glance and grab John and tell him he isn’t going anywhere, that he misses him, really misses him. He wants Paul to tell him it doesn’t matter what happens, if the band goes up in flames, if the whole world goes up in flames, they’ll have each other and that’s unbeatable. John thinks of him and Paul on that Greek island, what feels like eons ago, surveying the land like kings, carving out a place for JohnandPaul, and oh, he knows what he wants. He wants Paul to _do something_. It’ll never happen in a million years. 

John makes a small noise at the back of his throat and reaches out his arm. He catches on Paul’s sleeve, like a child, _like a fucking child_ , and Paul just looks confused. For a second John hopes he sees a flicker of recognition, of Paul seeing the true despair emanating from his every pore, but Paul just shakes his head and John drops his hand. 

“John, I really think you should go. Before you do something you’ll regret.” 

There is a sort of sick satisfaction at the sadness in Paul’s face when he says it, though. 

Something he’ll regret. John doesn’t regret anything, that’s what he’s always said, and that’s what he’s always felt. He doesn’t regret acid, or heroin now, or even the “Jesus” comment, not really. “Never too late to try something new” seems to be the rule of the day though, because lately, John does regret some things. He regrets being born, the same old teenage melodrama, not because he doesn’t want to exist but because he’s always had the uncanny feeling someone got it wrong. Maybe he was meant to exist, but not now, not here. Not like this. He regrets not doing anything all those years, not ruining it sooner. He regrets stringing everyone along with the head-shaking and the bright costumes only for this empire to fall by his hand. Some days he regrets ever squinting down his nose at mini-Elvis and giving this kid, this gorgeous, clever kid a crying chance. Better than fucking Elvis, god. Better than anyone. John doesn’t think there’s anything he could do right now that he’d regret, anything that would matter. Their flight course is set, he realizes, and for the first time the utter dread of inevitability sets in. In the depths of his mind, Paul is saying _this is a thing worth fixing_ and John is saying _this is a thing past fixing_. 

He should leave though, Paul was right about that. He never should have come. There’s nothing for him to do here, nothing he can do. Perhaps there was something that should’ve been done years ago, something to set them on a course other than this one but neither of them knew how to do it. Or perhaps not, John takes pains to remind himself—Paul’s always right where he wants to be.

All the anger has drained out of John. He’s just fucking tired. The fury will be back, if not tomorrow, the next day. He lives in hope still of another good fight. Mental wounds are harder to lick, but Yoko is talented and up to the task. And Paul won’t anymore. Paul won’t. 

John nods grimly and goes to leave. As he opens the door he glances back and catches the last traces of the look on Linda’s face. John’s never been able to skewer Linda the way he can with most people; he’s tried and she’s stood bemused. She doesn’t look that way now though. She looks sorry for him. John shuts the door behind him and looks up the darkening sky. The girls keep a distance, he figures he still looks a right state. He can’t go back, he knows that. He’s not so sure he can even go forward anymore, but he sure as hell can’t stand right now, so forward it is. At the end of the day it’s still the only way to go.

**Author's Note:**

> This is obviously from John's paranoid, drug-fueled perspective, not my personal thoughts on the matter. Let me know what you think, constructive criticism is always appreciated!


End file.
